


let your heart be light

by prosodiical



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Party, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: There's nothing particularly enjoyable about a MACUSA Christmas party, except this: Newt Scamander, face flushed and eyes bright, asking Percival to dance.





	let your heart be light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azar443](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/gifts).



> ...I really hope you like tooth-rottingly sweet Christmas fluff, because that is all this is. Happy holidays! ♥

They've outdone themselves this year. MACUSA's entrance hall is filled with lights, tiny flickering _lumoses_ floating like dust in sunlight, all the way up to the expansive rise of the ceiling, charmed to show the stars. There's snow charmed warm, never-melting, candles that smell of spice and logs burning on a fire, and fountains of hot cider and mulled wine.

Percival thinks it's a waste, but he offers Seraphina a wan smile over his glass when she gives him a look across the room, and checks his pocketwatch again, wondering what time he can feasibly go home.

He isn't made for these sorts of gatherings, especially now. There's been too much obsequiousness in the ranks, people who smile at him to absolve their own guilty consciences, and even those who are genuinely empathetic show more pity and regret for the past than any appreciable respect for change in the future. He's had better luck with the Aurors under his command; a few weeks of Percival's pointed stares and they'd fallen back into their old habits, no longer tiptoeing under silencing charms around him. If only everyone could be the same.

Worse: the ones who look at Percival like they're seeing someone else, the shade that wore his face. Percival doesn't know who he had hurt except for Scamander, but even that's enough, that the first time the man had bumped into him he'd looked at Percival with wide, startled eyes. He'd apologised to Percival later, standing in his office with his knuckles white on his case and only briefly meeting Percival's gaze, and Percival's own apology lay heavy on his tongue. Even now, after running into the man a dozen times and working alongside him on two cases requiring his expertise, Percival can't quite forget the way Scamander had looked at him, can't quite stop wondering if Percival will ever be able to wipe that history away.

Percival's frowning into his glass, he realises, and downs it as he hears Scamander's voice in a lull of conversation: " - I couldn't," Scamander is saying, his voice slightly louder than usual, to Tina Goldstein on his arm. She nudges him with her elbow, probably smiling, and Percival looks over to where Seraphina's finishing her dance. He'll take her for a spin on the floor, he thinks, so she won't be too annoyed when he retires gracefully home.

Someone clears their throat, surprisingly near, and Percival's attention snaps in a rush to - it's only Scamander, shifting on his feet, his hands in his pockets and looking rather conflictedly at the floor. Percival says, "Mr Scamander?" 

There's a flush on his cheeks when Scamander looks up, his sky-blue eyes bright. "Mr Graves," he says, his words that pointed enunciation of someone slightly drunk. "I hope you don't mind if I - ask you for this dance."

Percival says, thoroughly startled, "What?"

"A dance," Scamander says, and meets his gaze steadily. "With me."

It isn't as though Percival hasn't been solicited tonight, but after one look at his expression they've decided their fortunes lie elsewhere. Scamander, though, doesn't back down, even under Percival's most penetrating stare; instead, his mouth lifts in a faintly amused smile.

"Very well," Percival says, because Scamander's been on his mind intermittently this evening - and if he were to admit it to himself, far longer than that. He takes Scamander's outstretched hand and lets him pull him to his feet. There's a wiry strength in his arms, flatteringly showcased in his fashionable jacket, and Percival's rather struck by his smile, just on the edge of mischievous, as he tugs Percival onto the floor.

Percival sets his hand on Scamander's hip and takes the lead as the music starts up again, something languid and slow. Scamander peers at Percival through his eyelashes and says, "I'm sorry if I surprised you. I just - wanted to get you somewhat alone."

Percival sighs. "If this is about - "

"No," Scamander says, quickly, then: "yes, I mean - I feel like I've made a terribly bad impression on you, that's all."

Percival, dubious, lets his eyebrows creep up his forehead. "You've made a bad impression," he repeats, and Scamander bites his lip, the corner of his mouth pulled in that same smile.

"I didn't want you to think I - well," he says, "I do rather like you, Mr Graves."

The song rises to a crescendo. Percival's steps falter, but Scamander keeps hold of him, his hand on Percival's waist, his gaze flicking to Percival's eyes and away. Percival starts, "Mr Scamander - "

"Please," Scamander says, "it's Newt."

He's close. The warmth of his body's unmistakable, the faint flush to his cheeks not obscuring his freckles at all. "Newt, then," Percival says, "you haven't made a bad impression at all."

Scamander - Newt - smiles at him, quick and surprisingly sweet. "That's good to hear," he says. "I'd thought - when you..."

"If anything," Percival says, "I thought I had."

Newt's gaze flicks to his, oddly piercing, and Percival feels strangely vulnerable under his regard. "Anyone who would hold that against you," he says quietly, "isn't much of a person at all. You really are nothing like him, you know. There's no mistaking you."

"If that were true," Percival says, and Newt shakes his head, mouth pressed in a firm line.

"No," he says, emphatic, "there's no mistaking that you - you care, Mr Graves."

The last notes of the song fades away, and Percival's stuck on the slightly messy curl of Newt's hair, the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the compassion shining bright in his eyes. He lets his hands fall from Newt's waist and Newt does the same, his smile a shade embarrassed now in the silence, and - no. Percival snags his arm. "Have a drink with me."

Newt starts. "I - yes, of course. Mr Graves."

"Percival," Percival says, and even once they're off the dance floor, once he's snagged two floating champagne flutes from the air and passed one to Newt's waiting fingers, Newt's gaze doesn't leave him at all.

Percival remembers what he said: _I do rather like you,_ with a remarkable honesty in his voice, the open lines of his face. Percival remembers his own thoughts on Newt, too lingering and private for him to fully brush away. "Thank you," Percival says, and it can't emcompass everything he means. Perhaps it doesn't have to, with the sweet, tentative curve of Newt's smile.

"I should be thanking you," Newt says, leaning in, "for letting me work here. I don't think Madame President likes me very much."

"Neither of us have much tolerance for law-breakers," Percival says, but finds himself matching Newt's smile. "We didn't, at least. I might be changing my mind."

"Your creature handling regulations are less than ideal," Newt says, and, teasing: "Perhaps you should keep an eye on me, Mr Graves."

"I have been," Percival admits, in a flush of ill-considered feeling, but the slow spread of delight across Newt's face is entirely worth it. He steps forward, just once. Newt lets go of his glass. "Newt."

"Percival," Newt says, and Percival could become used to that mouth, saying his name. Newt's pupils are large in his eyes, his tongue pink when he wets his lips. "I..."

"I'm afraid we've been caught by a charm," Percival says.

It takes Newt a moment, but he follows Percival's gaze above his head to the floating boughs of mistletoe hanging in the air. He tilts his head at Percival, his smile turning sweet and amused. "It's not quite close enough."

"No?" Percival says, and flicks just enough magic to send the nearest bobbing over the few feet between them. "I think you just weren't looking hard enough."

"You cheat," Newt says, eyes sparkling, and kisses him there, on the edge of the room, right under Percival's ill-gotten mistletoe. It's as much as he's dreamed of, even short and sweet. Newt murmurs, "Merry Christmas," and Percival kisses him again.

"It is," he says, quietly. He thinks: _because of you._


End file.
